The Masks We Wear
by AuthorAtHeart1049
Summary: What ever happened to Ulquiorra after Ichigo destroyed him? His soul would have been cleansed. This story follows what happened to him both before he died and after his soul was cleansed and sent to the Soul Society. It was based on an awkward conversation in the car. Please read and review.


___A/N: I know this one seems a bit strange, but strange things crop up in conversations during a long car ride. My Beta and I were talking about Bleach, and how certain characters got to be the way they are and for some reason we settled on Ulquiorra and just _how ___he could have become an Arrancar. We came up with the following story. Enjoy and review~_

Chapter 1

The bells were still tolling as the young priest made his way over the well manicured grass. He had promised his father he would come straight to the house after the service. The elderly Irishman was celebrating his 60th birthday, and Connor knew what his father was like.

"Oi! Pass me the ball!" Emerald green eyes were drawn to the voice of a teenage boy. There were about 5 or 6 of them from what he could tell, playing a pick-up game in the field by the church. "You deaf or somethin', Preacher?"

Connor started, looking down to see a beat up football at his feet, "Oh sorry!" He kicked it back to them, extremely aware of the growing strain in his pants as he watched the teens running around the field. Their bodies shone in the mid-morning sun as sweat formed. He snapped himself out of the thought process before his ___problems _could draw any unwanted attention. Cork was not the place for such things.

He made his way to the small hut he called a home. Flashes of the teens went through his mind, making it difficult to walk at times.

"Yer late!" His father said gruffly as he walked in. Connor checked the pocket watch he kept on him. It read only half past noon.

"Only by five minutes, father. I said I would be home at twelve twenty-five."

* space *

Brilliant green eyes opened. He saw a lazy cloud drift by while wondering where he was.

"Hey! You okay? 'S not good to be laying out here." He turned his head toward the speaker, clearly they were addressing him. There was something familiar in the wild orange locks, cinnamon brown eyes, and obnoxiously large sword. He wished he could place it.

"Yes. I am fine. Have we met before? You seem awefully familiar." He'd said it before he thought to check himself. The man across from him tilted his head, eyebrows knit together in thought. "I'm sorry. Don't answer if you don't want to."

Brown eyes filled with confusion, "It's okay. I know what you meant, but I don't think we've met before."

"Maybe in another life."

"Maybe. Anyway, you shouldn't nap here. Could get killed. Come with me. I'll take you down to the receiving hall. It's where souls are processed. Oh, you probably don't know...you died."

"I know. My last clear memory is of being run through with a katana. Please, lead the way." He followed the substitute shinigami into the Rugonkai and through various streets. They stopped outside a large building. "My name is...was? Connor Amakami. It was nice meeting you, Kurosaki."

"I didn't tell you my name."

"I'm sorry?" Connor turned to face him, confusion written on his features. "I could have sworn you told me your name was Kurosaki Ichi...something."

"It is. My name is Kurosaki Ichigo. Didn't tell you that though. How did you know my name?" The teen took a step away.

Connor shrugged, "Don't know. Just did. Must really have known you when I was alive. Were you ever in Cork?"

"Where's that?"

"Ireland. My home town." He smiled in a way he hoped was friendly looking. He really had no idea where he had learned the boy's name. "Have you been to Hakodate? My mother came from there."

"No. Let me ask...when did you die?"

Connor thought about it for a few seconds, "1784."

"I wasn't even born until the 1980s. Now I'm curious where you learned my name before. Anyway...go in and get processed. I'll catch up with you later." He gave a small wave as Conner went into the building. The thought on his mind of just where or when he'd met the Irish man lingering.


End file.
